


Fix the Sky a Little

by theundeadsiren (rhoen)



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deaf Character, Depression, Disability, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Learning a New Language, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Permanent Injury, Reconciliation, Recovery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhoen/pseuds/theundeadsiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been injured and permanently deafened while on a tour of duty in Afghanistan, Rick is discharged from the army and has to go home to Roarton - somewhere he really doesn't want to be. He struggles to come to terms with what has happened, and also to pull himself out of the depression he finds himself falling into. It's only when Kieren comes back to Roarton during the summer holiday that Rick realises he might not have lost absolutely everything.</p><p>Written for the In The Flesh Big Bang.</p><p>Updates Wednesdays and Sundays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [thedrawfill](http://thedrawfill.tumblr.com).
> 
> This work is mostly un-beta'd, and hasn't been thoroughly checked for errors. That said, thank you to peter for reading over and checking the first few chapters, and for generally encouraging me throughout this whole thing.
> 
> And, of course, thank you to everyone who takes the time to read my works and to leave kudos and comments. This is for you guys. I hope you like it.

**You cannot take this fic and edit or reupload it - in whole or in part - without my express permission. This includes translations.**  

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Thank you for respecting my wishes

* * *

 

Rick’s first awareness was of waking from a nightmare. Snatches of clinical whiteness pushed at his mind, pain and fear and oppressive silence still clinging to him as he fought to regain consciousness, piece by piece coming back to reality and trying to relax as he placed the terror that had gripped him, banishing it from his thoughts. It had just been a dream, he told himself; a long, nightmarish dream, which had somehow started long ago, in the desert, with grainy sand and the taste of blood filling his mouth as pain tore through him.

Rick jerked awake, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he sat bolt upright, hyperventilating. He felt awake. Everything was telling him that he was awake, but he was still trapped in the nightmare, in that clinical room. He couldn’t hear himself. He was calling out in terror, but his voice made no sound. It just tore at his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. The tubes attached to him that he clawed at hurt as he tried to tear them free in a blind panic, desperately wanting to be rid of the intrusions, to be free of this nightmare. Someone started moving towards him across the small, sterile room, in a way that felt threatening and frightening. Hands were on him, trying to push him down still his movement, willing him to give in and accept his fate. He fought to push them away. Another figure crossed the room.

A moment later, everything started to fade again. Rick tried desperately to fight it and cling to his awareness of his surroundings, but the sedative was already coursing through his veins, dragging him under.

_fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj_

The next time he woke, Rick was just as scared. For a moment, he couldn’t open his eyes. He tensed, frightened. He didn’t want to face the inexplicable sense of dread he felt. He felt like he’d lost something. There was a warning, something lingering on the fringes of his subconscious, trying to warn him…

When he opened his eyes, something slammed painfully into his chest. He remembered the nightmare, and now knew that it was his reality. It felt disjointed. There were lingering traces of anaesthetic making him feel out of place, but something more fundamental was missing.

For a moment, Rick wondered if he were dead, so oppressive was the silence.

There was no heartbeat, no breath: no anything. He simply existed, inside this void, and he couldn’t reach out and find any connection to the world around him. He felt like he was crying. A moment later, someone reached out to him. His mum. He couldn’t help tensing as she shifted from his side, where he’d been unable to see her, and filled his vision, her face creased with concern and love as she wrapped her arms tenderly around him, proving she was real. Rick clung to her, letting his senses be filled with her presence – the smell of her fading perfume, the brush of her hair against his cheek, the texture of the woollen jumper she wore against his hands as he grasped tightly at it, the weight and warmth of her body so close to his. He felt comforted by it. Her presence was familiar; it was safe. He didn’t want to let go.

He had to, though. He couldn’t hide away like this, clinging to his mother forever. Gathering himself, Rick gave his mum one last tight squeeze, and then let go. He had to find the strength to face this.

It was difficult when he opened his mouth and made a conscious, concerted effort to speak. He was sure the words came out, but there was no way to tell other than the soft vibration of his vocal chords as the air pushed past them, and the shapes his mouth went through automatically as he formed the words. His eyes hadn’t left his mother, and he watched her, waiting for a reaction to his question.

“Where am I?”

He was coming back to himself slowly, gaining an awareness of things he wasn’t quite ready to test – for example, he could guess what the tightness around his head was, but  wasn’t willing to do so. The world still felt strange and overwhelming. He watched as his mum indicated towards the foot of his bed. The room wasn’t particularly large – there was enough space for the medical equipment and the chair his mum now sat back in, while leaving plenty room for more. It was lit by a fluorescent light in the blank ceiling above, and by daylight that filtered through the partly open blind. Starkly illuminated was a whiteboard, to which Rick’s attention was directed, which hung opposite his bed. Large, sloping writing proclaimed:

‘You are in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Birmingham  
Today is: Thursday 3/3/11  
Your nurse is: Genevieve’

A clock sat above the whiteboard, pointing at ten past two. Nothing helped. The world didn’t make any more sense, and Rick screwed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, only to find panic rising at the oppressive silence. The invading light was better than the nothingness. He’d wanted to find something, to understand how he came to be here, but in those few moments of darkness only terror came to him. He knew he very basics of why he was here – any soldier needing more medical attention than they could give at Camp Bastion was transferred back to the UK, and to the QEHB – but he didn’t know what had happened. Through the haze in his mind he fought to locate the last memory he could, to latch onto a date, or a day – even a place. But everything slipped frustratingly away from him, leaving him empty-handed as he snatched after fragments that fell between his fingers and melted back into nothingness.

When Rick looked round, his mum was watching him carefully. Realising that, he tried to school his expression into one of calm, but found it disturbingly hard to do. How long had he been here? What face did his mum see staring back at her? Nothing hurt – the pain in his head felt like a phantom, as if he were remembering the pain rather than feeling it.

Trying to find the courage to face whatever answer he might receive, Rick pushed the air past his lips, forming another question.

“How long have I been here?”

His mum’s expression didn’t change. She simply lifted her hand, showing three fingers and moving her mouth in an exaggerated way. The second word he wouldn’t have been able to guess if she hadn’t then drawn a ‘D’ in the air. Three days. Rick wasn’t sure what to do with the information, and if he should feel relieved or not, but he wanted to write it on the whiteboard so he wouldn’t lose it.  Everything felt uncertain. Altered.

The next question that came to mind, Rick was afraid to ask, and he swallowed thickly, trying to keep the fear from overwhelming him as he shaped the words.

“What-?”

The rest of his words came to an abrupt halt when his mum’s attention shifted sharply, her focus switching instantly from Rick to the other side of the room. Rick followed her gaze, seeing the door push open. He felt himself pale. His dad. He looked awful, his features drawn and the shadows under his eyes telling of stress and fatigue, the current situation obviously weighing heavily on him.

It took Bill much less time to react to seeing his son awake than it did for Rick to work out what to do. He was saved, he supposed, by the rapid discussion that passed between his parents. He turned his head, trying to watch the conversation and work out what was being said, but he couldn’t grasp it. It felt almost like an argument. He felt so disconnected, like a child that couldn’t understand the important adult words that were passing over his head. He felt invisible. They were discussing him, but Rick couldn’t gain access to the conversation. His dad wasn’t moving forward, either. He held back, and after a few moments of discussion, he vanished again, leaving Rick staring helplessly after him. He flinched as his mum’s hand came to rest on his, looking round at her, startled by the sudden touch. All he got was a sympathetic look, her hand squeezing gently, before she looked away, closing off the tiny channel of communication he felt he had with her.

He could always speak, part of him knew, but his tongue sat heavily in his mouth as he tried to cope with the isolation. He wouldn’t hear whatever answers might be given to his questions. Slowly, Rick withdrew his hand from beneath his mum’s, lifting it and tentatively feeling for the first time the bandages wrapped around his head. They were fairly tight, and through the layers, Rick could feel the outline of his ear. He scraped his nail over the fabric, straining to hear something. Nothing. There wasn’t any particular pain either. It felt like someone was playing a cruel joke and had turned all the sound off with the flick of a switch. He desperately wanted it back.

Just as Rick awkwardly raised his other hand – the one with a cannula in it – to feel the extent of the bandaging and if his other ear was still intact too, the door opened again. It wasn’t the red-headed nurse entering the room that he focused on – it was his dad, who lingered by the door, as if unwilling to enter. He didn’t want to be around Rick. That definitely hurt. Rick didn’t know what had happened to himself. Was he disfigured? There wasn’t any pain…

Rick just sat there, dismayed, until the nurse’s gentle hands encouraged him to sit back against what felt like a mountain of pillows. She smelled nice – a warm, comforting mixture of strawberry and cinnamon – and gave him a bright smile. He was distracted for a moment, and tentatively tried to return it. When the feeble attempt died and his focus went back to the door, Rick’s dad was gone. It felt like abandonment. Rick was frightened. Maybe that’s why his dad couldn’t be in the same room as him – he could see the weakness. But he desperately wanted things around him that he knew, and that made him feel safe. His dad’s presence would have been welcome.

The nurse’s hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, giving Rick a reassuring stroke. He looked up, and could almost feel himself latching onto her, or the idea of her – safe, reassuring, warm, bright…  She took her hand back, tucking a stray strand of flaming red hair behind her ear before turning to Rick’s mum, asking something. Janet bent, picking an item up from where it had been resting against the chair she sat on – a whiteboard with a pen attached. Rick stared at it, feeling his face crease in despair. He wanted to cry, and looked to the nurse, trying to find something to hold onto. She just gave him a soft smile, as if to say she understood what he felt, but she also knew he could do this. Rick knew he was probably imagining things. And he couldn’t do this. He didn’t know how.

“Why can’t I hear?” he blurted out, desperate. His mum’s hand found his again, but it barely registered. It was the nurse who gave him hope. But she just shook her head once, apologetically, the meaning clear: we’ll get to that in a moment.

It took a few minutes – painfully slow, horrible minutes in which everything the nurse, who turned out to be Genevieve, wanted to ask or communicate had to be written down and then held up for him, as if he were inside a vacuum on the other side of a glass wall – before he got an answer.

Three days ago, he’d been on patrol, and had been in an accident. Genevive didn’t say what exactly had happened – if it was a genuine accident, the enemy, or friendly fire – but as a result, Rick had lost his hearing. They’d do tests, now that he was properly awake, to determine the extent of the damage, but she couldn’t tell him for certain if it was permanent or not. A specialist would come to see him. He’d be talked through things he was starting to be unable to comprehend: chances, probability, prognosis, treatment. His eyes glanced over the replies he was given, his mind unable to take it all in. It felt like he’d shut down after being hit by the realisation that his might be permanent. Being hit wasn’t exactly the right term, he thought detachedly. It was more like a cold, oppressive wave washing over him, settling over his body, and the damp seeping into his very bones. He might never hear again.

Rick couldn’t feel anything.  He felt too exhausted. He didn’t know how to react either. Was he supposed to scream? Or cry? Or just bear the news silently, unwavering?

At least, he thought as Genevieve left and his mum squeezed his hand for the umpteenth time, he was the only one who had been severely injured. There was small comfort in that – a tiny pinprick of light in the darkness settling around him. Everyone else was okay. What he had to endure for that was worth it for that.

Right?


	2. Going Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so close to not posting this. Bleh.

Rick watched the scenery, so different from the desert he’d known for four months and the rich green of Surrey he’d known for the last two, roll past. He was uninterested in the grey suburbs that gave way in parts to patches of greenery as the congestion on the motorway eased and they left the M25, heading north. He carefully kept his gaze fixed out of the window, not wanting to see any of the glances his dad occasionally cast in the rear-view mirror. As much as he despised the pitying way people often looked at him, there was something in his dad’s expression that was far worse – shame, and fear. It made Rick feel ashamed too.

He still hadn’t quite woken from his nightmare. Each day for the last eight weeks it had continued to play out, and Rick was frighteningly close to the realisation that it would never end; this bad dream would go on forever. Part of him was still waiting for someone to admit they’d make a mistake – any minute now the phone would ring and his mum would answer, telling his dad they needed to turn round and go back: there’d been a mistake and Rick could get better after all, and the army needed him back. Part of him so desperately wished for it, while the rest of him remained numb, suspended from the world around him. He merely spectated. Life was happening around him, but he didn’t feel a part of it.

Rick’s departure from the hospital had come after five long days of tests and evaluations, and of people orbiting busily around him. The flicker of optimism he’d had that he might regain his hearing had been slowly extinguished, hope diminishing as the list of unsuccessful tests grew and the concerned glances from tight-lipped nurses and doctors started speaking louder than words ever could. And then on Wednesday afternoon an authoritative and sombre chief surgeon had come to break the news, his apologetic expression doing nothing to ease the final prognosis. Rick could still see the words, black ink contrasting starkly on the now well-used whiteboard: _I’m afraid I don’t have very good news Rick_. There had been diagrams and words which had explained how, what and why, but Rick could recall little of the interaction beyond the chilling numbness that had set in as the last nail in the coffin was driven home, shutting out the world he knew and forever encasing him in darkness.

He had thought, at the time, that the prognosis was the worst part. He’d been wrong: the worst part had been some weeks later when he’d received his medical discharge from the army. A colonel had come to see him after his interview with the medical board, offering his best expression of condolences as the paperwork became official. Rick barely noticed the guy. He felt cold. His entire life had ended, just like that. He still couldn’t remember the incident that brought it about, but his career was over. He could never go back. That life – the one he’d worked so hard for and had given everything to – was forever closed to him now. He could never go back.

That realisation had been so unbearable that Rick shoved it aside, determined not to face it. But now, leaving the rehabilitation centre and heading home, unwelcome reality was threatening to creep in, its icy fingers trying to close around him and tear him into the painful reality he knew awaited him. There was a careful space Rick tried to get his mind to occupy – a place where everything felt suspended; a state of numbness. He wanted to stay there. Nothing felt entirely real. The weight of the world couldn’t settle on him if he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t want to shift from the thin visage of safety he’d found to hide behind. He didn’t want to have to face what was left of his life, because he knew that once he’d face the finality of it he could never go back. He’d always be broken; an outsider. He’d never fit in ever again.

Headley Court, where he’d been for the last few weeks, had been a marked improvement from the hospital. The staff there had been kind, in a way that wasn’t pitying or condescending, and he’d been in the company of amazingly resilient men and woman who were enduring far worse than him but still got through the day. In truth, it had made him feel like a charlatan. He wasn’t as brave or as smart or as enduring as any one of them. He’d also been unable to drop the mask of bravado he was amazed he’d been able to find, let alone have the energy to maintain. It had been unbearably hard not to give in and let the feelings threatening to overwhelm him take over, especially when he messaged friends in his unit and saw new photos and threads of conversation on social media and had to smile while everyone moved on without him. The loneliness and frustration he felt as he desperately tried to hear something – his own heartbeat, snatches of a conversation, the wind outside, the crash of metal against crockery as he dropped his cutlery on his place; anything other than the incessant tinnitus that plagued his left ear – almost tore him apart. But he’d kept the mask in place, because the only other option was to let it slip and for people to see just how afraid and alone he was, and that was unthinkable. So he put on a show of resilience, did all the tasks required of him, attended the set appointments set, and tried his utmost to seem to the world that he was okay.

He really wasn’t, though.

In the front of the car, his parents were talking. Seated behind his mum, Rick watched his dad’s lips move as he replied. Rick had no idea what they were talking about, and felt another stab of loneliness. He was viewing the world through a window. The conversations he’d seen around him looked so warm and inviting, but there was no way to reach out and become a part of them. He was trapped, locked out in the cold.

Unable to take it, Rick looked away again, out the window.

_fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj_

Roarton hadn’t changed, and the sameness wasn’t comforting. Despite the traffic around Birmingham, they’d managed to make the journey in five hours, but the bright sunshine cascading down on the village did nothing to lift the mood of the place or make it seem welcoming. As they slowed and turned into their road, Rick closed his eyes, grimacing. He remembered the automated voice on the satnav, and the woman’s cheerful intonation as she proclaimed ‘you have reached your destination’. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want this to be the end of the road. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his homecoming. Opening his eyes again, Rick took in the houses of his neighbours as they drove by. This isn’t how he thought the place would be, or feel. It was something from the past, and while familiar, it felt nothing like home. He didn’t feel like he belonged here. He didn’t want to belong here.

And when he saw their house, he didn’t feel a rush of relief. He just thought how small it looked; almost sad. It seemed so unremarkable. Surely it hadn’t always looked like that?

His dad swung into the driveway and Rick felt the engine shudder to a stop as his full view of the house was obscured. His parents were quick to leave the car, but it took Rick a moment to reach for the door handle, and yet another to find the strength to open it. This was it. He was home. He wasn’t sure what to do with that fact, and found himself pushing the thought aside as he moved to the boot of the car and focused on the practical necessity of moving his stuff into the house. Both his parents had disappeared, but just as Rick was testing the weight of the bag he was about to pick up, him mum reappeared.. She regarded him for a moment, her expression melancholy, before crossing the distance and hugging him tightly, despite the huge rucksack he was wearing, in a very warm way that clearly said ‘welcome home’.

“Thanks, mum,” he mumbled, one arm awkwardly returning the gesture. When his mum pulled back, she reached for the bag he’d been about to take. He let her take it. It wasn’t that heavy.

“Thanks,” he said automatically, wondering if she heard him.

In the house, Rick bumped into his dad on the upstairs landing, Bill leaving the bathroom and causing Rick to have to shift awkwardly to let him past. He muttered an apology, his head down as he tried to get by. He didn’t know how to deal with his dad. He didn’t know to deal with anything.

His room was tidy. Rick could tell his mum had cleaned it recently, and the faint smell of fabric softener that grazed his senses as he dumped the heavy rucksack on the bed told him that she’d changed the linen in the last day or so too. It was a comforting smell, and for a moment Rick was tempted to lie down and bury his face in the pillow, to give in to the remembrance of warmth and comfort. But the moment passed, and he stepped away, nearly crashing into his mum, who had come back into his room behind him, carrying another bag.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologised quickly, before he realised what he’d said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean…”

She was giving him an understanding smile, although Rick couldn’t help but notice how tired she seemed. Perhaps it was the journey. Or perhaps it was everything that had happened in the last two months.

After putting the bag she was carrying down, his mum held her left palm out, her right scribbling in the air above it. Rick shook his head.

“It’s still in the car,” Rick replied. “Hang on.”

A quick glance on his way out the door told Rick that his dad was in the kitchen, helping himself to something out the fridge. Rick didn’t linger. Instead, he fetched the final two bags from the car, heading straight back up to his room. As he put the bags down and pulled out the tablet he’d been given, he moved to the bed, sitting down next to his mum, who was waiting. He passed the device over after flipping the protective cover from the screen. There was no password – there wasn’t any point.

Communicating this way was incredibly frustrating. It was slow, and made Rick’s mood sink as he watched whoever wanted to talk to him laboriously type out their words. There was a speech-to-text option, but it had trouble with a lot of accents, Lancastrian included.

‘Okay after the drive?’ his mum typed, angling the screen so Rick could see it more clearly. She’d been a receptionist, so to her the on-screen keyboard wasn’t as much of a challenge as it was for Rick’s dad, who loathed the technology and hadn’t once touched it, instead getting Janet to type what he wanted to say – and then, it still amounted to less than fifty words in the last two months.

He simply nodded in response, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t know how he felt, other than lost.

It took a minute for his mum to finish her next message.

‘I’ve moved some of your older clothes into boxes. They’re in the wardrobe. Would you like me to help you unpack?’

He shook his head this time. “Thanks mum. And no, I’m good.”

Rick didn’t feel like unpacking. He didn’t feel like doing anything. The energy and motivation he’d had to maintain a positive pretence was flagging – not that he’d been maintaining it the last five hours anyway. Now that he was here, at home and surrounded by his things, it was becoming harder and harder to fight the overwhelming despair rising within him. He didn’t know how to cope with what he was facing. In a familiar environment, the contrast between what he once was and what he was now was inescapable. It made him feel even more alienated.

He tried to focus; to push the thoughts and feelings aside.

‘I’m going to go start tea,’ his mum said. ‘It will take an hour. Come down before then if you like.’

Rick nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. He managed some semblance of a smile, the expression helped by the warm touch of her palm on his shoulder as she stood. He knew he was expected to unpack, but the idea of being downstairs and doing something was infinitely more preferable to being on his own.

Before the carefully measured fifteen minutes were up, Rick jumped as his door was pushed open. He hadn’t turned the light on despite the slowly fading daylight, nor moved from the bed, so the sudden change as light from the landing spilled into his room made him look up. He was confused to find his dad standing there, looking almost… happy?

His dad quickly held seven fingers up, mouthing ‘seven o’clock’, and mimed drinking a pint before moving his mouth in an exaggerated way, probably saying ‘Legion’. He then nodding in question, expecting Rick to answer in the affirmative. Still surprised, it took Rick a moment before he worked out what he was supposed to do, and the automatic grin and nod came to him.

“Yeah, sound good,” he felt himself say. His dad gave a satisfied smile, and then left, leaving Rick staring after him, all thoughts of going down to help his mum temporarily forgotten as he realised what he’d agreed to. He was glad his dad wanted to go out with him, but what was he supposed to do in a pub environment? How was he supposed to be a part of any conversation that went on? Rick desperately tried to think of a way out of it, but nothing came to him.

In the end, he settled for telling himself it wouldn’t be that bad. He wouldn’t have to stay long, and his dad would probably do most of the talking anyway. There would just be a handful of the old regulars in. It wouldn’t be that bad.

Before he could think any more on the matter, Rick found himself heading downstairs to at least help his mum set the table for the dinner she was preparing. He’d worry about the Legion when he got there.


	3. The Legion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploading a few hours early - hope you enjoy <3

The Legion was almost exactly as Rick remembered it – the sign; the evergreen bushes fringing the building; the fading whitewashed walls and even drearier colour scheme inside; the lighting that was carefully not too bright, as to avoid drawing too much attention to the fading décor and weary furnishings; and the smell. Since the smoking ban it was easier to notice the unpleasant odours that accumulated in pubs, and the Legion wasn’t as successful as others at masking it. As he walked in through the heavy swing door behind his dad, Rick was struck by the unattractive musk of stale beer and even staler bodies which had permeated every surface over the decades but now had nothing to conceal it.

Bill didn’t hesitate, and walked confidently into the room, obviously greeting everyone present. It seemed busy, even for a Friday night. Rick followed dutifully behind, incredibly uneasy as heads turned. The bar was almost crowded, and several people who had been leaning against it now pushing off from the worn wood and stepped forwards to greet them – to greet _him_ , Rick realised as he was all but thrust into the small throng of people. He was surrounded with familiar faces, hands grasping at his own and lips moving to express various sentiments. ‘ _Welcome home_ ,’ was repeated – thankfully easily for Rick to understand, by more people than Rick realised had been there when he walked in, and his eyes shifted from face to face as he gave a stiff nod and polite smile, trying not to be overwhelmed by it. It seemed like nearly all his dad’s work mates were there, as were a few neighbours, some of the regulars who Rick couldn’t recall ever seeing outside these walls, and a few faces he was surprised to find he remembered from school. Of course, the one person he wanted to see wasn’t there, but Rick tried not to think about that, pushing the thought aside as Dean gripped his hand, the touch a little more friendly and not as stiff as everyone else’s. Rick wished he could gravitate towards him and spend his time with people he felt able to be more himself around. But he couldn’t do that. Before Rick could look to his dad for support, a drink was already being pressed into his hand – a pint of Stella – and, aware of the people watching him, he played along, raising it.

“It’s good to be back!” he proclaimed, taking a sip of the drink and desperately hoping his tone came out as uplifting and cheerful. However he ended up sounding, the people around him raised the drinks they’d reclaimed, looking as if they were cheering and toasting his sentiment. There were more grins and several rough hands clapping his shoulder, and then Rick found himself able to breathe. In the small space afforded him, he took a barstool, sitting down and taking a swig of his pint. His dad sat to one side, Matthew Datta, one of the local farm boys who was actually now old enough to take over the family farm, Rick realised, on the other. Rick’s mood – temporarily buoyed by the surprisingly warm welcome – quickly crumbled as he realised Matt was talking to him. He’d paused, and was looking at Rick as if he expected an answer, but all Rick could do was stare dumbly, uncomprehending. He hadn’t caught even a fraction of what Matt had said. There were people still crowded around, no doubt listening for his reply. He turned to his dad, hoping for some support, but his dad just grinned as he said something, giving Rick a glance as he finished that made Rick feel like Bill expected him to back his words up. But Rick couldn’t even guess what he’d said. Slowly, he turned back to Matt.

“Uh, yeah, my hearing got kinda messed up,” he felt himself say. He couldn’t look up. He didn’t want anyone to meet his eye. Fumbling in his pocket, Rick withdrew his phone, holding it out: the tablet was too big for his pocket, and too obvious, so he’d left it behind. It was then that he looked up at Matt, seeing a stunned expression on his face.

“Here, uh… use this to type.”

Rick felt as if he’d missed a step and fallen, only the ground never hit him. He was mortified. Slowly, Matt took the phone, and Rick looked away, busying himself with his pint. Had Matt even heard what he said? How loud was the pub anyway? Had he spoken loudly enough?

People were shifting around him, a few stunned faces glancing at Rick, and a few more turning Bill or to Matt, obviously shocked. They hadn’t known. Bill hadn’t told them. Aware of the change in mood around him, Rick felt painfully isolated and tried not to shrink in oh himself as the loneliness constricted around him. He knew he was being judged. People were regarding him differently now. He was an outsider.

He was so incredibly grateful when Matt held the phone out, giving Rick a distraction from what was happening around him.

‘Where were u posted?’

Afraid his voice wouldn’t work, Rick paused for the briefest of moments, swallowing, before he answered, hoping he wasn’t speaking too forcefully.

“I was on my second tour out in Afghanistan.”

Matt nodded and took the phone back, typing for a moment. ‘What happened?’

“IED. Thing exploded on me before I could get clear.”

From the look of disbelief on Matt’s face – and the faces of a few others gathered around – Rick felt prompted to continue, recalling what the debriefing report had told him.

“We were doing a sweep of a house in a village we’d just reclaimed. The bomb was rushed and in an odd position, so didn’t do the damage it could have done. It was a huge one – took out the wall opposite me, but I just caught the tail end of it and got thrown back.”

Rick had seen the full report, and suppressed a shiver as he thought about how lucky he’d been to get away at all. He still couldn’t remember it, and knew he never might be able to. Perhaps that was a good thing. Still, he was incredibly thankful that the building hadn’t collapsed on him, and that his armour had protected him from sustaining too much damage. Other than the irreparable damage to his hearing.

His phone was being handed back, signalling the end of the exchange with Matt. The people around Rick were looking past him; towards his dad, who was probably saying something. Rick looked down at his phone, reading the message there.

‘Sucks m8.’

Rick couldn’t even find the energy to react, and locked the screen, putting his mobile away as he took another long drink from his pint in order to avoid the people around him, even if just for a few seconds. He could tell the alcohol wasn’t going to help him feel any better, and wondered for a moment if that meant he should stop drinking. But he was in a pub, it was his first night back, and people were buying. Rick had barely had a chance to think before another pint was placed down next to his nearly empty one, and he looked up, surprised to see old Ken from the Walkers’ road giving him a nod and stiff smile, which Rick reflexively returned. For a moment it struck him that Ken wasn’t looking at him with pity, but with sympathy, but someone cut between the two of them, and the moment was gone.

It took Rick another moment to realise that someone was trying to get his attention, holding their phone out to him. Dean, Rick realised as he glanced up. He took it wearily, trying to keep a casual expression in place as he took the battered Nokia and read the screen.

‘Reely sorry to hear what happened. Glad your back in 1 bit. Any chance of it getting better?’

He didn’t need to ask Dean to clarify. Not feeling confident enough to speak, and not particularly wanting people to overhear, Rick typed his reply.

‘Thanx. And I wish but no.’

During his time at the facility, Rick had been seen people whose job it was to make his transition back into civilian life – or just life – as easy as possible. The therapy sessions had been hard, and slow, but he’d managed to skim over the topics without revealing too much, or having to talk or think about things in too much detail. There had been the sign language classes which had given him some basics, and he’d been given an entire library of leaflets and pamphlets about everything from PTSD to working tax credits, but the whole time he’d been there, he’d avoided the truth. He had played the part without believing it. He still didn’t quite believe it, but here, in the Legion, surrounded by people and yet somehow still so frighteningly alone, Rick caught another terrifying glimpse of what his life would always be like.

He couldn’t help recoiling from the knowledge. His hand found the cool glass Ken had bought him, and he focused on the beads of moisture against his skin. Around him, everything went on as it always had. Rick couldn’t hear it, but he could imagine the sounds that might fill the place: the noise of several conversations held at once, the voices mixing together, the loud, over-confident laughter. The world carried on, without him.

Dean was handing his phone back to Rick, and Rick hoped Dean had been too busy typing to notice the brief slip in his ability to hold it together. Just minutes ago Rick had wanted Dean’s company over that of everyone else present. Now he just wanted to be alone.

‘No hearing aids or anything?’

Dean was trying to be kind. Rick forced himself to remember that as he hastily typed his reply, relying on the autocorrect for the mistakes he made. He’d barely finished his response – ‘nerve damage and something wrong with inner ear so they can’t’ – and given the phone back, before he was shifting from his seat, purposefully heading towards the toilets. He kept his gaze down, muttering a few ‘sorry’s and ‘excuse me’s as he went, hoping that he hadn’t spilled anyone’s drink.

Reaching the bathroom, Rick wavered for a moment. He tried to remember what he was doing, and why he was there, but as he entered the familiar room he suddenly remembered an even more familiar face, and childish things done a lifetime ago. Whispers and poorly stifled laughter echoed in his mind, his arm itching as he felt the ghost of someone’s grasp and remembered the way they’d fallen against the wall in an uncoordinated tangle. He didn’t want to remember those things. Rick already felt so unbearably cold and alone, and the sudden resurfacing of that memory did nothing to help.

The overwhelming desire was to get _out_ , but Rick didn’t know specifically what he wanted out of, or how to do it. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want to feel the world closing in around him. He didn’t want anything: he just wanted everything to stop, and for life to go back to the way it was before, but ‘before’ became a confused mess in his mind, and it wasn’t just the weeks before the explosion, but years ago, when he’d been a stupid boy playing stupid games and doing stupid things. Times long gone.

Something shocked him from his own thoughts, and Rick tensed, suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings. He was still alone, but he’d have no idea if anyone walked into the bathroom unless he kept watching the door. He wasn’t going to do that. Crossing to the urinals, footsteps silent in room that echoed everything, he tried to fight the overwhelming feelings and lock them away. No matter how much he didn’t want to be there, he couldn’t exactly walk away. He’d have to stay in the Legion for an hour or so, putting on a display of normalcy for everyone around him, until it seemed natural enough for him to go.

It was incredibly hard for Rick to make himself leave the relative safety of the toilets, and before he headed back to the bar he went into one of the cubicles, easily finding the piece of vandalism still there amongst all the others that had been left over the years. He wasn’t sure why he thought it might not be there, but it had surprised him, causing him to waver. He hadn’t meant to look, but hadn’t been able to withhold the compulsion once it gripped him. As his fingers traced over the letters, the veil between the past and the present seemed so thin he could almost reach out and tear it down, reclaiming what he’d lost. What he’d given up. For a moment he couldn’t remember why he’d done it, and all the things he wanted to say rose in his throat, constricting him. It hurt. Something in his chest twisted painfully, and Rick pulled his hand back, unable to suffer the weight of it. He knew he couldn’t afford to fall apart, no matter how difficult it was to act like he was okay.

Returning to the bar, Rick did what he could to avoid interacting with anyone, adjusting his body language subtly and trying to avoid making eye contact without being obvious about what he was doing. Gary Kendal and Jake Fullerton bought him some stronger drinks to chuck back, but by his third pint people were paying him less attention, and he was able to excuse himself and move to an empty table with just his phone for company. By his reluctant sixth, no one had attempted to communicate with him for at least half an hour, and his dad’s sudden slap on the shoulder startled him. Trying not to show any alarm – or relief to finally be able to leave – Rick had left the last two inches of his now warm drink and follow his dad into the cool night air.

He didn’t particularly focus as they walked home. Had his dad not been there, Rick wasn’t sure he would have gone home – at least not immediately. But far too soon for his liking, they were pushing the door open and moving as quietly as they could into the house. It struck Rick as ridiculous. He couldn’t hear a thing – save the tinnitus which had returned with a vengeance. He nearly laughed humourlessly at the stupidity of everything around him, but the sight of his dad in front of him made him bite his tongue.

Climbing the stairs in what he imagined was a quiet way, Rick managed to put himself to bed, taking comfort in the nothingness rising up to claim him as he passed out.


	4. Disintegration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter, I'm sorry. I might update Saturday, rather than Sunday, to sort-of make up for it.
> 
> And still, thanks to Peter for having checked over for glaring errors <3

That first morning back home, Rick had woken in a state of confusion – a mixture of military discipline kicking him awake, forcing him to check for danger, and the comforting familiarity of home lulling him into a false sense of security, making him relax, and close his eyes again. For a brief moment, he forgot what had happened, and what he was. The silence had been peaceful: welcome, even. And then he remembered. The pain splitting his head was nothing compared to what he felt when reality slammed into him.

Forcing himself to get up, Rick had gone through the motions of preparing himself for the day. Thankfully his dad hadn’t gotten up until after Rick had managed to shower, dress and go downstairs to prepare a restorative breakfast. It wasn’t much – just a standard fry-up – and Rick had been too hungover and weighed down by far too many things for him to even enjoy it, but at least he ate alone. He hated mealtimes. He’d hated them at the rehabilitation centre, and he came to hate them even more now that he was home. Helping his mum in the kitchen wasn’t such a chore, but sitting down for dinner steadily became more and more unbearable each time he had to endure it, and he found himself voluntarily clearing the table and doing the dishes after meals to avoid having to sit at the table any longer than he absolutely had to.

Rick wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to get through that first weekend. There had been a hangover to nurse, sports to watch, things to pretend to unpack, and conversations his mum wanted to have, but he still found himself with far too much idle time. It seemed that the constant presence of his dad in the house had kept Rick together. He seemed to be there, always in the background, reminding Rick to keep up appearances; to pretend. While his mum expressed an interest in sign language – something Rick didn’t have the energy to show her, even if he could remember what he’d learnt – his dad seemed determined to ignore anything to do with Rick’s condition. He talked at dinner – no doubt about his work day – and frequently used exaggerated gestures and move his mouth as if he were talking to an idiot when trying to communicate with Rick, as if he thought that would get past the barrier. It just made Rick feel stupid. His dad’s idea of a reassuring grin every now and then wasn’t convincing, and increasingly became part of the problem, to the point where Rick couldn’t even look directly at him. He felt ashamed of what he was, and hated how those looks made him feel even more alienated and broken.

Rick wasn’t sure if he was surprised when it eventually happened, but the Wednesday after he came home, he disintegrated. Since the Friday morning his parents had come to pick him up, he’d played along, smiling as best he could and acting for all the world as if he were okay. He’d tried to shake off the glances and the worried looks his mother gave him, the overt gestures and idiot-speak mouthing of words he was subject to, and the way his dad regarded him when the fear and shame of having a useless son clearly played on his mind. He’d tried to ignore the deafening silence which was interrupted only by the unnerving tinnitus as his brain tried futilely to pick up the tiniest of auditory stimuli. He couldn’t hear his heartbeat; he couldn’t hear his own breathing; he couldn’t hear his cutlery scrape against his plate at mealtimes; he couldn’t hear the clock in the hallway ticking; he couldn’t hear his parents’ voices; he couldn’t hear the traffic outside; he couldn’t hear the phone ringing; he couldn’t hear the sound of water running, hitting against his skin as he stood beneath the shower.

Standing in the doorway and staring at his pathetic room, Rick had frozen, reality suddenly piercing through him and stripping away every last shred of strength he’d fought so hard to retain. A sob rose in his chest, raw and ugly, and before he could find enough shame to stop himself, he was crying. It took everything he had not to crumple under the weight of it, and when he managed to reach his bed he simply curled up, smothering any noise he might be making with a pillow, finding himself unable to stop the tears and the sobs that shook him entirely. He didn’t know how to express the pain and misery welling up and so desperately trying to find a way out of him, and it felt as if he was breaking apart trying to voice it. He didn’t know how he sounded, but he felt beyond pathetic. He was broken, and alone, and nothing in the world could change that or give him his life back. Things he’d superficially known but hadn’t really examined too closely were slamming into him: all the voices he’d never hear again; all the friends he’d lost; the things he could never do, or do again; his dad’s disappointment; his inability to interact with the people around him; and that this was his life now, his world. Each realisation rolled into him, battering him unrelentingly, until he didn’t feel human any more, yet somehow still cried. He felt completely empty – a husk – but even as he lay there, staring unseeingly at the wall, tears still dampened his skin and the already soaked pillow and sheets.

He didn’t have the strength to move. Occasionally a huge shuddering gasp would escape him, but eventually there was nothing else left. In some distant, detached part of his mind, Rick supposed that was fitting. After all, there was nothing left of him either.

_fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj_

After avoiding Wednesday’s dinner, claiming he wasn’t feeling well when his mum cautiously entered his room, Rick slept fitfully, eventually waking in the early hours of the morning. He felt raw, and yet numb at the same time, and wasn’t sure how to process what had happened, so didn’t. For the longest time he lay there, simply staring into the darkness unthinkingly. Something in him almost itched to move, and when he was no longer able to ignore it and eventually gave in, Rick found himself getting up and slipping downstairs as carefully as he could. The whole house seemed silent and still, and Rick had the notion that he was simply a ghost, moving through the twilight of someone else’s reality – even his tinnitus had quit, for now, making the darkness and silence almost entombing, as if it were claiming him.

Finding himself in the kitchen, Rick simply stared at his surroundings, trying to work out what he was doing there. Everything was neatly stored away, the table tops clear and the metal fixtures reflecting what little light there was. The tap was dripping, and Rick stared at it, remembering the sound of water steadily beating against metal, before he reached over and turned it off. The sounds that he knew should be there – the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock – were missing, and it felt surreal, as if someone had hastily constructed the world and forgotten to add a crucial part of it. He was merely a visitor in an unfinished reality.

In the fridge, Rick found some food that his mum had set aside for him. Taking it out and removing the Clingfilm, he suddenly realised how hungry he was. Surrealism behind him, the military habit of eating as fast as possible before something could interrupt him kicked in, but halfway through the cold meal Rick’s stomach cramped in protest, forcing him to chew his mouthful slowly before swallowing. The cold meat and vegetables sat heavily in his stomach, and Rick didn’t feel like taking another bite. Unhurriedly, he moved through to the living room and sat down, balancing the plate on the armrest. He was careful not to upset it as he dug the remote from between the cushions and held it loosely in his hand. Part of him wanted to turn the TV on, just for company, but at the same time it seemed so pointless. He wouldn’t gain anything from it. And there was just enough streetlight filtering through the net curtains for him to make out the room: the worn seats, the TV in its corner, the photographs on the mantelpiece and hanging on the walls. Everything was in its proper place. Everything except himself, Rick thought. He’d taken his dad’s seat, because that way his eye wouldn’t be drawn to it, and the shadows couldn’t refigure themselves into his shape, making Rick think that he wasn’t alone.

Fingers playing over the buttons, Rick slowly set the remote down. He wanted companionship – something that would make him feel less alone – but as he sat there in near darkness, he suddenly felt like he didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t good enough.

It made finishing the meal even harder, his stomach now uneasy from the realisation. He forced himself to eat, but the motion became slow and mechanical, and difficult. It was hard to swallow past the lump forming in his throat, and when he was done and went to rinse his plate, the darkness was made all the more difficult to navigate by the tears stinging his eyes. It was as he walked as carefully up the stairs as he could that the first hot streak of wetness fell down his cheek, his mind repeating that one thought: ‘ _I’m not worth it; I’m not good enough_.’

Rick bypassed the bathroom, going straight to his room. He was crying again, the tears falling steadily and silently as he stripped and crawled under the covers. He wasn’t sobbing pathetically like last time, but the pain hurt no less. It still twisted sharply in his chest as he struggled with his own worthlessness. He was broken. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere.

Burying himself under the duvet, Rick tried desperately for a moment to hear something – anything – and then he let go, allowing the nothingness wash over him. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, or how desperately he wanted it. This was what he was now. The life he wanted, and the people he wanted to be with, belonged to another world - one Rick had no place in. He was damaged; his potential gone, snuffed out in an instant. He wasn’t wanted, needed, or desirable. Not anymore. His friends from the army, his unit, moved on without him. The friends he missed and longed for from school had long since left this place and forgotten their friendship with him. His parents looked at him as everyone else did – afraid of the effort it would take to communicate with him. He wasn’t worth it to them. To his dad, he was an embarrassment to be ignored. To everyone else… he wasn’t worth it.

The loneliness that realisation brought was so acutely painful it made it easy for Rick to close his eyes and allow himself to fall into an uneasy sleep. After all, as fitful as his dream might be, they were still dreams, and nightmares were still preferable to the reality he had no hope of ever escaping.


	5. Can't Face It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is actually awful. ~~I don't want to even finish it.~~

There wasn’t much to mark the days that passed. Rick withdrew almost completely, making sure he wasn’t up in time to join his parents at breakfast and avoiding dinner by claiming he wasn’t feeling well, or had eaten a late lunch while his parents were at work – and that was if he spoke to them at all. He didn’t know how to be around them, or what to say, and the way they looked at him was unbearable. His mother’s expression was always filled with concern, and his father’s… he was clearly afraid of what his son had become, and no longer tried to talk to him at all. The awkward grins Rick had been subject to, which had seemed more like grimaces, stopped completely. Rick was relieved not to have to force himself to go through the motions and smile back as if everything was okay, but on the other hand it compounded the growing awareness of his own worthlessness. Both himself and his dad both did what they could do avoid being in a room together, thinking of reasons to be elsewhere if they were, until Rick wasn’t even sure when he’d last seen his dad – a few days ago, perhaps.

There were appointments that had been set up for Rick to attend, as part of his rehabilitation plan, but he avoided those too. He’d gone to the first few, but was aware of the fact that he was just going through the motions, performing the very minimum that was required of him. Everything seemed pointless, as if he were trying to stem the flow of a tsunami with a single stone. He was alone, and nothing could ever change that. Nothing could make it hurt any less, or change what he had to live with. He didn’t get the point in trying. Around him, the world kept on spinning. The friends he’d had moved on – up and away from him. Talking to them on Facebook became more and more draining, until it reached the point where Rick couldn’t take it. Isolation was better than the awful, desperately lonely feeling that grew and grew with each passing status update, each group photo, and each increasingly awkward, stunted conversation. It made him feel worse to see and to know that people kept going without him. So he stopped looking.

Rick wasn’t sure what he was anymore. Perhaps two weeks after he came home – he wasn’t sure as he didn’t even know what day it was, never mind the date – he stood in the bathroom staring at his reflection for the first time in days. An unhappy young man stared back at him, but other than a week’s worth of stubble and pale skin made unhealthily pallid by the dim light and dark rings under his eyes, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him. There was nothing special or worthwhile or redeemable about his appearance, or him. The man he had been was gone, replaced by a cadaver which held only the barest semblance of life. For a moment, Rick had watched as a tear welled up and ran down his cheek, and then he’d looked away, completely unable to face his own appearance again. He’d washed and shaved with eyes downcast, going through the motions mechanically and trying to ignore the fact he was crying again as he ran the blade over his skin, trying to catch each hair by touch alone.

By the time he left the bathroom his eyes were somewhat drier, but the feelings still remained – he was unremarkable, he was worthless. It was a mantra that echoed repeatedly in his mind, the only thing he could actually hear. Falling back into bed and pulling the duvet over his head did nothing to shut it out, but it shut out the rest of the world and offered the darkness Rick felt he needed and deserved. It felt like he occupied a space on the very fringes of existence, between life and nothingness, and each day the colour faded even more from the world around him. He had just to lie down and let the current take him, and he would disappear altogether. It felt like most of him had already, and only his body remained; an echo of a voice long gone. In the face of everything, the desire to disappear became so achingly strong, second only to the desperate longing to hear again.  All the things Rick had known – the colour and vibrancy of life – were so distant and unattainable. There was nothing holding him, preventing him from slipping away even further, and he didn’t know how to reach out and find a new reason to hold on to.

_fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj_

Rick hadn’t unpacked his bags. He’d left them at the bottom of the bed and pulled out what he needed when he needed, until one afternoon, when he decided to get up, there was nothing clean for him to wear. For a moment, it had frustrated him, making it feel as if the world was conspiring even further against him, and then he realised that it didn’t really matter. There was nowhere to go. There was no one to impress. No one would see him, or care about his appearance and the fact that he was wearing the same t-shirt and boxers he’d worn for the last two or three days straight. The trackies Rick pulled on he wasn’t sure about – they’d been halfway down the pile of dirty clothing, but looked clean. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t going anywhere.

As he made to leave his room, Rick paused. An envelope had been pushed under his door. For a moment he stared at it, his mind kicking into overdrive as he wondered what it was. It had to be urgent – all his post was left downstairs in an untouched pile – but if it was, how did his mum know, and why hadn’t she woken him? Was it from the hospital? Or an angry letter from either of his therapists chastising him for the appointments he now routinely missed? He didn’t owe anyone any money, surely? Had someone died?

Rick was almost as afraid of the letter as he was hopeful, and while part of him knew he was being stupid, his heart still beat far too quickly as he reached down and carefully picked it up, turning it over so he could read who it was from.

It took him a few seconds longer than it should have to place his mum’s handwriting. She’d simply written his name neatly on the front of a windowed envelope, no doubt taken from work, and he could see her handwriting on the letter inside. Whatever he held, Rick wasn’t sure he could face it. He was already feeling guilty. He’d spoken less and less to his mum, avoiding her contact as much as he had everyone else’s, and he wasn’t sure when he last said more than two words to her, or paused long enough to let her communicate with him. Being deaf made it easy to shut out the world – all he had to do was close his eyes and turn away.

His mum didn’t deserve such a worthless son, but Rick knew she deserved a son who avoided her the way he did even less. It was that thought which made him return to his bed, sitting down as he carefully opened the envelope, his hands shaking as the fear of what she might say became stronger. He knew he deserved whatever was to come, but the thought of his mother saying it…

 _Rick,_  
There are so many things I wish I could say to you, but I’ve never been good with words. I regret that. I wish I’d told you far more often than I did how much I love you, and how proud I am to have such a wonderful son. You mean the world to me, and I’m not sure if you know that.  
I also wish you knew that I will always be here for you, no matter what. I can’t imagine what you are going through right now, but no matter how bad it gets or how alone you feel, I am here for you. I always will be. When you are ready, I will be here.  
Please help yourself to the food in the fridge. I hope you have a better day today, and perhaps we can talk later, if you would like.  
All my love as always,  
Mum

Rick stared at the letter for a long time after he’d read it, blinking back the tears stinging his eyes. His mum hadn’t written that she was worried, but it was painfully clear that she was. Rick looked again at the well-chosen words, wondering at what point she realised this was the only way to communicate with her son. He knew it was supposed to encourage him to talk to her, but he could already feel it having the opposite effect – he felt ashamed and wanted to disappear. He was an awful son. His mum deserved better. He wanted her to have better. It’s just that he couldn’t be the son she deserved.

Folding the letter away and placing it in a drawer, Rick made his way downstairs to get something to drink. There was, as there had been since he’d stopped bothering to sit down for meals, food in the fridge, and he ate it out of guilt, not wanting his mother to worry any more than she was already. The food sat uncomfortably in Rick’s stomach, making him wish that eating was a chore he could forgo completely, and he returned to his room feeling worse than when he’d got up. He wanted to fall asleep again, but knew that wouldn’t happen, so instead huddled under the duvet and pulled the battered book from his bedside table towards him. It was one of the few books in the house – a yellow-paged, dog-eared copy of Charles Dickens’ Bleak House – and it was completely boring. He’d started reading it just to have something to do while he was awake, other than simply lie there curled up and waiting to fall asleep again. But, as always, he couldn’t focus on the words, and he couldn’t take in what he was reading. Some things stuck – like the old man spontaneously combusting – but for the most part he had only a vague impression of what he’d read. It didn’t matter anyway. It was simply a distraction, and in an hour or so he might open his laptop and go online, aimlessly clicking through sites and barely registering what he was seeing. He didn’t check Facebook any more, and had signed out of and closed Skype. He didn’t know how to face interacting with people, and despite the letter and her assurance that she was there for Rick, that still included his mum.

_fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj_

It had been a long time since Rick had been forced awake, and for a moment he was puzzled by the hand on his shoulder, gently pushing at him. He opened his eyes and looked blearily up at his mother, who was standing over him making him feel even more confused. He didn’t understand why she was home. He was sure today was Monday: there had been leftover roast in the fridge last night.

Seeing that he was awake, his mum gave him a small smile and pulled out a note, which Rick squinted at in the dim light of his room – he hadn’t reopened the curtains after closing them several days ago.

‘I’m going ~~shopping~~ grocery shopping. Do you need anything?’

Rick considered the question for a moment, and then shook his head. He wanted to go back to sleep, and was considering turning over and pulling the covers up, when he realised how rude that would be. For the last few days his mum had been trying to catch his attention whenever they passed, and he’d been trying to avoid it, ashamed of the way he’d been acting and knowing full well that he couldn’t explain himself. Until now, she’d respected the distance he wanted to maintain.

All Janet did was nod at Rick’s reply, and start to leave. Grateful, Rick pulled the covers up, getting comfortable again as he closed his eyes. He was welcomed by the familiar nothingness, and let himself sink into it, trying to fight the nagging guilt he could feel building. For some reason he felt bad for saying ‘no’ to his mum, but it wasn’t as if he actually needed anything. His mum had to have known his answer, and was only asking out of politeness. Yet he couldn’t lie still, and a moment later he was sitting up, pushing the covers away and calling out for her.

A few seconds later, his mum reappeared in his doorway. Rick was already shrinking back, realising how stupid the sudden notion he’d had was.

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, falling back onto bed. After a moment’s hesitation, his mum crossed the room and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed as she pulled out a pen and started writing. That was Rick’s cue to look away again, ashamed of himself.

Janet gently touched his shoulder, encouraging him to look. Reluctantly, he did, reading the question: ‘What is it?’

It would have been easier to lie and say ‘nothing’, but for some reason Rick didn’t, and instead struggled to find the words to explain what had crossed his mind. His mum was waiting patiently for his response, as she’d been waiting patiently for him to open up and talk to her since he came home. He didn’t particularly want to talk, and didn’t know what to say, but something made him change his mind about dismissing her question.

“I don’t have any clean clothes or anything, but I wondered if you wanted me to come?”

Talking without hearing his own voice was something Rick didn’t think he’d ever get used to. The weirdness of feeling his vocal chords move and his lips shape the words but not getting any feedback was still disconcerting.

His mum was writing again, awkwardly across her knee, and Rick read as she wrote: ‘Of course. We can go in an hour. No rush. I think there clean clothes in airing cupboard.’

Rick stared at the paper, biting his lip as he considered actually doing this – actually going outside. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t such a big deal, but to him… his whole world had been reduced to his room, and the occasional foray downstairs for food and water, or to the bathroom. He hadn’t wanted or needed to leave the house. The last time he’d gone out, it was to the Legion, and he felt ice spread through his veins as he remembered it. He didn’t want to have to go through that again.

“Are we going to the Shop ‘n’ Save?”

His mum shook her head, and Rick felt a flicker of relief.

“Okay,” he felt himself say. “Could I, um…”

He gestured to get up. His resolve to go was fragile, and rather than hesitate and let it disintegrate, Rick wanted to be doing something. If it wasn’t the Shop ‘n’ Save, they were probably going to the Aldi or Asda in Lancaster. It was far enough away from Roarton to offer some security.

Before moving, his mum quickly scrawled something, showing Rick as she moved out of his way.

‘See you downstairs :)’

She’d actually drawn a rather lopsided smiley face. Rick was surprised by it, and even more surprised to find himself reacting.

It wasn’t a very sure smile, but for the first time in weeks, the corner of Rick’s lips flickered up in a brief but genuine show of something other than misery.


	6. For a while, forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life hates me, I suck at responsibilities, and this update sucks :D (Also thank you for your patience, I'm sorry it's nothing earth-shatteringly awesome that merits the wait).

Rick had felt awful as he’d showered and shaved, trying to make himself presentable enough to leave the house. His mum was waiting downstairs, and he didn’t want to keep her too long, but at the same time he couldn’t help wondering what he was doing. It was the stupid smiley face his mum had drawn which made him expend the effort. She was trying, so he would too. Only, standing under the scalding shower spray and realising just how filthy his hair was and how dirty his body had become, Rick had nearly given up. He felt disgusting. How had he allowed this to happen? And how could his mum have stood to be near him? He felt ashamed.

After showering and shaving, Rick focused on the task of dressing himself. As his mum had said, there were clean clothes in the airing cupboard. They were hidden right at the back, behind a pile of linen, and as he pulled them out Rick instantly recognised one of the tshirts. It was at the bottom of the pile, and even feeling the fabric brought back memories. It had been his favourite shirt for a long time – even before it came into his possession – but he’d left it behind when he went to Basic, just as he’d left behind everything else tied to the person who gave it to him. Rick felt an overwhelming wave of sadness and longing grip him, and quickly took the uppermost garments from the pile and added them to the bottom, burying the t-shirt.

There was an old, worn pair of DPM combats in the pile, which perhaps shouldn’t fit after five years, but still did. Rick secured the trousers with a belt and quickly threw on the uppermost t-shirt from the pile, not particularly caring that it was a band t-shirt. He had to search through the clothes scattered around his room to find a passably clean pair of socks and a hoodie that was acceptable enough to wear in public, and as he did, he felt the same embarrassment he’d felt earlier in the shower grip him. He’d never been an overly neat person, but the state of his dimly lit room was unforgiveable. Ashamed, Rick crossed to the bed and stripped his bedding, with the idea in his mind that it would force him to change it when he got back. He also opened the window a crack to try and change the air, but left the curtains closed, not quite wanting to see the state of his room clearly. Not until he absolutely had to.

Twenty-five minute after getting up, Rick was ready. He collected his wallet, which was still zipped in the innermost pocket of his rucksack, and on his way downstairs took a bank statement from the top of the pile of post to check his balance. As he was frowning at the numbers, Rick’s mum came into the hallway, gently touching his elbow to let him know she was there. Stifling his alarmed reaction, Rick folded away the statement, stuffing it unceremoniously back into the envelope.

“I need a haircut,” he sighed, trying to forget about the confusing figures. He vaguely remembered sorting the financial side of things out while at Headley Court, but had done nothing since. He didn’t particularly want to face that chore, much like the messy room upstairs.

Janet regarded him for a moment, giving a slight shrug at his comment. She still had the pen with her, and wrote on the back of an envelope lying at the top of the pile, which looked like it was another bank statement.

‘You suit it like this,’ she said.

Rick ran his hands a little self-consciously through his hair, wondered if she meant it. Given that the last time his hair had been this long was when he was eighteen, and he was wearing clothes that hadn’t been out the cupboard since then, he almost felt young again, and perhaps even looked it. For a moment, it was almost possible to believe that the last three years hadn’t happened, and he wondered if that was what his mum was thinking. Maybe she thought she had her real son back.

But she didn’t. The last three years were painfully real and Rick was living with the consequences of them. Consequences. As if he’d made a bad choice. For a brief moment, Rick wondered if he had. What would his life be like if he’d taken a different course those few years ago? Where would he be now? Would he be happy? He’d certainly be whole, and unbroken. The love Rick had felt for his career as a soldier, and for the friends he’d made and worked alongside, wasn’t so strong that he didn’t regret what had happened. More than anything he wanted to be normal, and to have his life back.

But as he watched his mum writing on the envelope again, Rick knew that a normal life would forever be beyond his reach.

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It was a forty-five minute drive to Lancaster, but despite worrying how the time would pass, Rick quickly forgot his apprehension. He’d turned down the offer to drive, and instead watched the scenery roll by. It had changed since he’d last been out, and there was more colour in the landscape as spring started to give way to summer. Rick had thought he’d known the road well, but parts he found he couldn’t remember. He took in each corner and each sign post, recalling trips to different places, and wondering what the ones he’d never been to might be like. It seemed to take five minutes, not forty-five, to reach the outskirts of Lancaster, where his mum navigated the densely packed roads until they reached the supermarket. She hadn’t seemed to mind Rick’s distracted company – a few times Rick had glanced over and caught her seemingly singing along to the radio. It had surprised him, but he’d left her to it. The only thing he couldn’t work out was what she might have been listening to. He had no idea what kind of music his mum liked, and now never really would. The urge to reach out and crank the volume up to try and hear something made his hands itch, until he’d sat on them and forcibly looked away, a poorly remembered rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rhiannon’ running through his mind. He had no idea how long it would be before his memory warped the sounds he could recall. In five years’ time, would he remember the difference between Queen and AC/DC, or even between his mother’s voice and that of any other female? He struggled to come to terms with that, and instead distracted himself by allowing a myriad of other remembered sounds cycle through his mind – the sound of a car engine, coins spilling onto a countertop, an L1A1’s semi-automatic fire, a cassette rewinding, doors at school snapping shut, popcorn popping – until he forgot what he was so afraid of and there was something new to focus on.

The supermarket was packed. It was a Bank Holiday Monday, which explained why his mum wasn’t working, but it didn’t quite explain to Rick why the place was so full. He thought that people would go and do something a little more worthwhile than grocery shopping. Obviously not. But in a way, it was nice. No one particularly cared about him, or spared him a second glance. Well, a sulky looking teenage girl with jet black hair and snakebites had kept looking over at him from where she was slouched over a half-full trolley, but everyone else was too wrapped up in what they were doing to notice him. He could mumble an ‘excuse me’ as he reached over to grab the carrots, or give an ‘oh sorry’ when he stepped back into a middle-aged woman, and no one knew that he was any different. His mum let him know which items she needed by simply pointing to them on the list she’d brought, and Rick could nod his understanding and go find whatever she wanted. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel completely useless.

It was also the first time he made an effort to do something about his situation, too. Getting out of bed and showering didn’t quite qualify, as they were basic things Rick should be doing anyway, but as he stood near the hardware and considered the switches, it felt good to make a choice and do something proactive. Taking the item from the shelf, Rick turned and went to help his mum at the checkout.

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The tools were exactly where Rick remembered seeing them last – left in an untidy pile in the corner of the garage. He’d gotten home about half an hour ago, after some more grocery shopping and a quick walk up to the high street before they left town, and helped his mum pack everything away. The journey home hadn’t passed as quickly as before, and for much of it Rick worried about returning to Roarton. He could feel reluctance welling up inside him, weighing him down with each passing mile. It felt like the end of a line; a terminal with no hope of ever moving on. How could he ever get out of there? He’d ruined his chance, and it felt like he’d never get another.

He had to remind himself that there were things he could do to perhaps make it a little more tolerable, though, and as he took what he needed from the garage and went back into the house via the fuse box, Rick took the bag containing his things upstairs with him. The glimpse he’d had of the laundry in the airing cupboard had compelled him to get a new duvet set – one that wasn’t too young for him and didn’t hold any old memories when he settled under it – and he’d also haphazardly selected some toiletries, as well as a few books from a charity shop. He set the bag down just inside his room and got to work installing the new light switch he’d bought, hoping as he used the drill that wasn’t loud enough to annoy his mum, who was downstairs making some sort of late lunch, or early dinner. He wasn’t sure which, but when she’d suggested it, Rick had been ashamed of the relief he’d felt at the prospect of a meal without his dad. His mum knew it – knew that he was afraid of his dad – and she’d given enough excuses for them sitting down together – that she wanted to talk with him, that she missed fixing him a snack when he got home from school, that she was still hungry after the sandwich she’d had for lunch and needed something before dinner – to put Rick somewhat at ease. He still hated the fact he couldn’t face his own father, though. It made him feel like a pathetic, unwanted copy of his former self.

After tidying up and making sure the new switch functioned, Rick made his way back down to the kitchen. His mum was watching over a pot of soup, stirring it occasionally, and looked up with a smile as Rick came into the room. He returned it a little awkwardly, raising the tools he carried.

“I’m just putting these back out in the garage,” he explained. By the time he came back into the house, there were two bowls waiting for soup to be ladled into them.

“Want me to do anything?” Rick offered. His mum motioned washing her hands, and then pointed at a loaf of bread. Rick did as he was asked quickly and silently, wondering if his mum had the radio in the in kitchen as she often did when he was growing up. He didn’t ask her, though, and instead worked to get the food on the table. It was a simple meal – leak and potato soup with buttered bread – but it smelt good, and as they sat down to eat and the hot food burnt his tongue, Rick realised that it was the first hot meal he’d had in longer than he could remember. He’d always been afraid to make too much noise and disturb his parents to use the microwave or reheat something on the stove. The simple pleasure of hot food, combined with the relatively undemanding company of his mother, made him feel relaxed. Even when she reached out and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, he didn’t feel the need to bolt. The awkwardness was still there, and Rick didn’t think it would ever go away, but dressed in clean clothes and hours removed from the cloying atmosphere of his room, he felt better: a little more human, and closer to who he once was. His mum seemed to like him like this.

There was a piece of paper on the table, and as they finished their meal, Janet wrote on it, angling it for Rick to read.

‘Want to do anything?’

It was such a vague question that it left Rick unsure, and he gave a shrug. “Dunno.”

‘Want to play a game?’

Rick looked up, surprised by the suggestion. He’d never played games with his parents before – they weren’t the sort of family to do that kind of thing. He didn’t know how what they’d play, or now it would work. Snap, perhaps? He’d never done much with his mum, either, and found that he regretted that. Perhaps this was a chance to change it, he realised. There was something in the way Janet had shifted in her seat, clearly hopeful for his answer, which left Rick with only one possible answer.

“Uh, yeah, okay,” he agreed eventually. “I’ll do the dishes first.”

Janet shook her head dismissively, starting to get up. ‘Just leave them on the side.’

Rick looked at the hastily scrawled instruction, and then at his mum, who was disappearing into the living room. She clearly had something in mind, and curiosity got the better of him. Rather than moving the dishes out the way, he followed her, standing in the doorway and watching as she crossed over to the dresser. Rick had a vague recollection of dusty jigsaws and old board games being stored there, and true enough, one was extracted. Scrabble. Rick almost laughed. He absolutely sucked at games like that. Frustration, yes; anything remotely intellectual, no.

Janet caught his expression as she turned, and gave a very clear ‘what!?’. Rick didn’t know what else to do or say, so simply shrugged and waited until his mum passed him before following her back to the kitchen table. He moved the dishes, carefully placing them next to the sink, and then sat and watched as the game was unboxed. It had seen the light of day perhaps once before.

Rick had no idea how to play. It seemed like his mum didn’t either, as she was examining the rulebook. Holding it in her left hand, her right wrote on the paper. ‘7 tiles each. Highest score wins. No stacking upwards. Can add to word already on board. If can’t place tiles, take one from bag’. Halfway through, she frowned, and looked round at Rick. ‘Want to just play first to get rid of all tiles?’

Rick gave a relieved nod, glad that there was a way to make the game less complex. “Yeah, good shout. I wonder if they’ll all fit though?”

Janet considered the board, which was somehow familiar to Rick, despite him never having played the game. Setting the rules aside, she took the pouch of tiles, pressing through the fabric as if trying to estimate its contents.

‘I think they will,’ she decided, offering the pouch for Rick to take his tiles. Pulling one of the tile holders closer, Rick selected his seven letter and angled the plastic holder so that once he’d put the tiles on it, his mum wouldn’t be able to see them.

“Why do we even own this?” he wondered aloud, considering the letters he’d drawn. He had only two vowels. He could make the word ‘bat’. That was a start.

‘Uncle Joe gave it to us one year,’ Janet explained. Rick snorted. His uncle had a knack of giving completely useless gifts. The last Christmas Rick had been home, his mum had been given an apple peeler. Needless to say, it had ended up being re-gifted.

Janet finished rearranging her tiles and gestured for Rick to go first. After some more deliberation, he placed his first word: brat. Not exactly genius, but he felt a little better when his mum used the ‘b’ to make ‘baggy’. Taking enough tiles to bring his up to seven again, Rick tried to find something good to put down, determined to make another four lettered word and pretend that he was even a little bit competent at English. After a few moments longer, his mum prodded him, and he looked up to see her smiling at him. She pointed at him, then at her head, and mouthed ‘you’re thinking too much’. Rick smiled a little sheepishly back. He probably was.

“I think the explosion knocked out a few more brain cells than the doctors originally though,” he said, placing his next word – a rather unimaginative ‘yet’. At his words, his mum reached over, gently brushing her fingers through his hair, and as he looked round at the touch, Janet’s smile faded as her expression softened into a kind of sadness. She couldn’t say what she wanted – he wouldn’t understand from just lip reading – so pulled the pen and paper close again.

‘You’re still the same wonderful young man.’

Rick felt a flicker of embarrassment at the words. They didn’t feel true. Nothing about him felt wonderful, or even young. He looked down at his hands, speaking to the table. “You’ll still be saying that if I live to a hundred, won’t you?”

There was no bitterness. It was simply a statement, and when he looked back up, his mum nodded, smiling gently as she mouthed ‘of course’.

Rick tried to return the smile, but the action of pulling the corners of his mouth upwards felt awkward, and he wasn’t sure he managed it. He felt lost. How could someone think so much of him, no matter what he was or had done, or might do or become in the future? He wasn’t quite sure he deserved the unconditional love his mother gave him – he certainly didn’t feel worth the patience she had shown, or the effort she was putting in to spend time with him. But he had it, and that suddenly counted for more than anything else in the world. Rick didn’t know what to do with the rush of gratitude he felt, and could feel his cheeks heating as he looked away.

“Thanks, mum.”

Her hand came to rest on his again, reassuring, until he had composed himself enough to put the moment behind him and look up. “So, what you got?”

He watched as his mum gave a satisfied smile, withdrawing her hand and placing ‘rumble’ on the board. Rick raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Not bad…” he mused, glancing at his own collection of letters. “But how about this…?”

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The game had lasted what Rick considered to be a respectable amount of time before they had shown each other the tiles they had, helping each other form words. From there, they’d ended up tipping up the remaining tiles and working collaboratively to fit them all onto the board, until they were all gone and they sat back, pleased with their work. It had taken a lot of looking between the board and his mum, but as Janet pointed letters out and then where they might go on the board, or had drawn them together to form parts of words, Rick learnt that there were particular expressions that gave away what his mum was thinking. She had a habit of tapping something – her finger against the table, or against her lip – when thinking, and it was easy to tell when she’d come across a solution she was particularly pleased with, as her right eyebrow twitched upwards a fraction. The smile also gave it away, but Rick stored the information for another time – perhaps for when they played a game of cards, where being able to read someone’s expression was more helpful. It alsoe made him wonder what kind of ticks and idiosyncrasies he had which gave himself away.

The expression of alarm that crossed his mum’s face as they were using the tiles to make as long a word as possible was unmistakable. Cold dread instantly flooded through Rick’s body. His dad. He must be home. Hastily, Rick started scooping the tiles together, cramming them back into their pouch. His mum helped him, and just as Rick was folding the board back into the box, his dad came into the kitchen.

Janet was clearly saying something – greeting him – and Rick looked up, feeling as if he’d been caught doing something shameful. Bill’s cold, detached gaze swept over his son, taking in the board game and the fact Rick and Janet had clearly just been playing it. He gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgement, and then looked away. Janet got up, moving into the hallway after Bill, and it gave Rick the chance to place the lid on the box and head into the living room to return the game to the cupboard it had come from. Back in the kitchen, Rick’s mum had put the kettle on.

“I’ll get the dishes,” Rick offered, moving to the sink. His mum didn’t physically try and stop him – the only way she could really object – and Rick got on with it, only turning as he placed the last of the few items on the drying rack.

“I’m going to head upstairs,” he said, probably unnecessarily. Janet nodded, looking up from where she was taking sugar down from the cupboard. “And, uh,” Rick hesitated, glancing away for a moment before he spoke again. “Thanks. For today.”

Janet just smiled, but Rick could tell she was relieved. Unsure of what else to say, Rick hovered awkwardly for a moment, and then left, hurrying upstairs as quickly as possible. He had no idea where his dad was, but managed to make it to his room without an encounter. He shut the door with a relieved sigh, leaning against it for several moments until his heartrate settled down. He was glad he’d gone shopping with his mum, and spent time playing Scrabble with her, but seeing his dad… For a few hours, Rick had been something close to okay with himself. He’d actually felt good, and, despite the continual ache at being unable to communicate easily with his mum, he’d enjoyed her company. In some moments as they’d tried to fit the letters together, he’d almost forgotten what he was and what had happened. He’d felt something close to normal.

It was clear that he could never feel that around his dad, though, and Bill’s coming home had just served as a cold, harsh reminder of how different Rick was – how much of a disappointment. Looking around his still messy room, Rick’s mood slipped even further. The last few hours fragmented in his memory and shattered, as if they’d never been. Rick would always have to return to this. He’d always have to return to what he was.

The energy he’d had earlier to make any difference to his situation evaporated. Rick slowly picked his way across the room and crawled, still clothed, under the duvet on his unmade bed. Curling up, he felt all the aches he’d forgotten coming back full force as he desperately wished that his father had the same love and acceptance for him that his mother did.


End file.
